Mr. Y's Fired

That is to say, Mr. Y's contract won't be renewed this coming school year. No one ever really gets fired in Japan, at least not in the sense of "I want you out of here by lunchtime. Say your goodbyes and try not to steal anything." Here, the firing is never quite as forthcoming; it's no public spectacle. A Security guard doesn't monitor you from a distance as you clean out your desk, making sure you don't snap and try to bury a stapler in middle-management's head. No one offers tight-lipped nods of pity and awkward words of consolation, while others with a weaker immunity to unease keep their eyes on their monitors and pretend to be doing something else.

No, if you're fired in Japan, you won't ever have to hang your head low as office supplies shift around in your in your milk crate with each humiliating stride in your walk towards the exit. Very little about being let go actually becomes verbalized, openly discussed, or dwelled upon, save the initial announcement to the "firee". Like other forms of ugliness in Japan, the bad news is outwardly ignored and concealed by faux interest in the business at hand. In an office where twenty or thirty teachers are rowed and columned up, desks huddled together, upon a glance you'd never be able to tell a bomb has been dropped; all seems fine, save the mental image of Mr. Y's getting canned hovering about eight feet above the floor like cigarette-smog at an AA meeting. Everyone keeps their heads down and avoids inhaling.

Without the liberty of talking about the problem, Mr. Y's only option is to internalize all of the emotion; when life deals certain types of bad luck (firing, divorce, infidelity) sometimes even close friends cannot be turned to for consolation. To put someone out by dumping your personal problems on them is still cultural faux-pas in some circles; there exists a low threshold of tolerance for negative or tragic news. Getting it out in the open as a therpeutic strategy is unheard of for many. Swallowing your medicine and taking it like a man by exercising acceptance is not seen as maikng yourself a candidate redemption, but what's expected of you whether you're canned, canonized, promoted, or just plain ignored. Some around the office seem to welcome the drama, as it's giving them more than ample watercooler conversation to gnaw on. Apparently a lot of mileage can be gotten out of a firing.

Today, as I saw Mr. Y going about his business as if he wasn't full of worry, embarrassment and reflection, I recalled an old friend of mine, a Japanese woman. She had struggled with disappointment after disappointment within a short-lived marriage and had finally put her foot down despite ostricization and threats from both her own family and the (ex-)in-laws. She had told me she would be unable to inform her closest friends of her quitting the marriage until it was a done deal on paper. Even then, she'd said, it would be difficult.

It was explained to me in this way: "Some Japanese people enjoy hearing bad news. It makes them feel good and they love to talk about it. It is gossip. It is very Japanese."

Well, gossip is very a lot of places. The Japanese part is the charade that ensues, the belief that not confronting the problem is the surest way to make it go away.

Mr. Y's crime? On paper, it's "Poor Classroom Management". I've seen his classes; the students don't mind his reasonably unkempt appearance and stringy hair. Hell, he looks better than half of the tenured over-fifty faculty who drag their asses to each class and overrreact to the slightest student insolence. On the contrary, Mr. Y has cultivated a good rapport with students, as the job required. His kids learn English pretty well. While the head of the English department depends on his native Japanese to get by, Mr. Y's nearly bilingual. He's a loveable misfit, a good teacher.

So the real infraction? Being that misfit. There's nothing loveable about it here. Or in the whole of this city, for that matter. The ones doing the firing are fashionable, sculpted, and schmoozy to the paying customers (pronounced: parents). The best thing you can be in this office is uniform. Ordinary.

Mr. Y has about three weeks to clean out his desk.

Questions? Comments? Post here or send mail to: lw_blog@yahoo.com.

Steal This City: 4000-Yen Euphoria

With nightlife and imbibing such an integral part of living in Tokyo (and for that matter the rest of Japan), the market for bars, clubs, izakaya, and anyplace serving up food, drink, and music is predictably thriving; but along with the fun come the same (hi)jacked-up pricing philosophy of brand shops and other establishments with foreign goods: The beer, vodka, and whiskey costs a bundle to import, so we have to raise our prices accordingly. Gomenasai. Well, I swallow a fair amount of alcohol, but I am not swallowing that story anymore. Just this afternoon, in a local supermarket, I saw cans of Heineken and Bud at 200 yen sitting just above Japanese brands at 300. Same volume. Tell me again why most nightclub bars carry Corona for 800 yen and Kirin for 600?

Club cover prices also lean a bit towards highway robbery, but clubs are far more forthcoming in the message they send: Look, kid. This is one of the hottest, if not the hottest, places in the city. If you wanna see pretty girls and witness the stylings of world-famous DJs, this is "the place to be". 5000 yen, please. Here is your ticket for one free drink. Good luck getting anywhere near the bar. I ain't buying that either. I have never, repeat, never been more impressed with a "world famous" tech/house/trance DJ spinning in an armory-sized "club" than with an unknown, sincere, risk-taking local DJ in a tiny corner of the scene who prefers having a good time and having the crowd (be it 10 or 10,000) do the same.

Without aiming to do so, I happened upon a place which fulfilled every yearning for for music by which to chill and let the drinks take their desired effect. On the way home, I discovered as an extra bonus that I'd put away only about 4000 yen, transport included. That's a cheap night in anyone's book. Here's a step-by-step recounting of what made one evening so memorable, or at least so memorably cheap.

1. The Road Soda Factor. (See also: Subway Bubbly, Subbly.) Hey, I'm no cheapskate. In fact, I've been known to overdo it in picking up the tab when out with local friends. But a 40-minute haul into Shibuya on a Saturday can be a bit lonesome unless there's a bit of drama unfolding in the train car you plop down in: lovers' spat, puking OL/salary man, loud ganguro girls, your garden variety nutbag. Plus, I like to make the scene with a bit of a buzz already going. The Commuter's Cocktail is almost a standard in New York; the Long Island Rail Road even had a bartender in each train until just a few years ago.

The combini at my station carries a lethal lemon-flavored canned chu-hai (150 yen, 7% alcohol) in tallboy cans. Depending on your body weight and DNA, just one of these could catch you off guard if you're not careful. Don't let the pretty colors on the can fool you, this is no ladies' drink. This one means business. If you do too, you'll pick up a couple for the ride in, assuming you're at a truly remote point A and a trek away from point B.

2. The Joint. (Click here.) A ten-minute walk from Shibuya Station's Hachiko crossing. Two joints, actually: one on the third floor, the other on the fourth. Both are mini-clubs, situated on a small slope around the corner from Shibuya's Tokyu Hands, each with simply a bar, DJ booth, dance floor, and modest lighting. Wall decorations? A few album covers, kitschy movie posters. Get comfy on dated vinyl furniture. The bars themselves don't offer any innovations in modern carpentry, but I'm not there to sniff the cedar. Sound systems? Superb. I walked into the fouth-floor joint to the tune of Prince's Erotic City being cut up by the house DJ; I'd later compliment him on his skills in broken/drunken Japanese. He'd smile appreciatively. We'd clink glasses. I'd stumble away.

Generally, the third floor's selections vary with each event; anything from house to techno to hip-hop to future jazz can be heard from the stairs as you make your way up. You can count on tech/house/etc. for the fourth floor's regular format.

3. Ikuradesuka? The fourth floor club offers two free drinks for a 2000-yen cover; the third, 2000 yen, but just one free drink, and a half-shot (30ml) at that. This is the only hiccup about the third floor, and my guess is they can justify being a bit stingy due to the "name" DJs they can boast who have been known to drop in for a spin. (On my first outing here about two years ago, Pizzicato 5's Yasuharu Konishi had just finished a brief residency.)

Remember those powerful chu-hais I mentioned? Well, I couldn't polish off the second tallboy before making the scene, so I'd tucked it in my bag for the way home. After the two free drinks I got at the club, it had struck, say, 2:30; I started for the bar and mulled over a nice light vodka-tonic/twist, when I suddenly remembered what was sitting all lukewarm and alone in my bag. I still had enough ice in my glass, WTF? I popped it in, then sipped it slow, and was good to go for at least another half an hour.

So there you go. 4000 yen euphoria, home by 6am, ready for bed. If you've got a minute, post a message detailing a unique outing in your universe.

QUESTIONS? COMMENTS? MAIL ME AT lw_blog@yahoo.com.